The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 42

Now that I heard how upset Marci was at learning of the attempt on my life, I felt guilty for leaving her the information in a text. "I didn't mean to alarm you with the message I left," I said, "but it was nice of you to call back so quickly. Am I okay? It depends how you define 'okay' ... but my doctor tells me I'll live."

"Please, Debra Ann—if Strike Response is trying to kill you, this has gotten way out of hand," Marci said, her tone insistent. "You need to leave this to the professionals. Whoever is after you won't miss twice. If you make me, I'll have you detained as a material witness."

I paused, unsure where she was coming from. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt. "I know you're just trying to help me stay alive, Marci ... but I don't think arresting a reporter is going to be great for the department's latest public relations push," I said.

"Better a PR shitstorm than me having to attend your funeral," Marci retorted.

It did seem she was still on my side. "Hey, at least some good came out of the day," I said. "Just before that happened, I turned up another 'Ricky' who might have had something to do with moving Theresa Seaver's body, a Ricky Mason. I'm told he's a low-level street punk, so not sure where or how he fits in yet. I'm still checking him out. I just wanted to pass you the name in case it might help your investigation." And mine.

"God, I hate to encourage you under these circumstances," Marci said, "but 'Ricky Mason' does sound familiar.... Give me a second.... Yes, I logged it. Took a call from a late twenties/early thirties male, a month ago. He claimed to have information on the Brian Pierce murder and mentioned the name Ricky Mason. I transferred him to Homicide, but the guy hung up by the time the detective answered. We traced the call to the manager of a gay bathhouse in Chicago; place is called 'Steamworks.' The manager gave his last name as Caminetti, said he didn't know anything about the call, that the cell is a courtesy phone he makes available to his clients. The detective's note says, 'prank call,' so we didn't pursue it. The out-of-town bathhouse angle for a local murder case is what made it stick in my head."

"Thanks, Marci, that's good to know. Since you're not working that angle, I assume it's okay if I check it out," I said, as a statement rather than a question.

"Dammit, Debra Ann, stop going around poking bears!" Marci said sternly. "Take some time off, get yourself feeling better. And call me before you do anything."

#

I knew just one person who could relate to the group I needed information from, and who also had extensive investigative experience. I wanted to talk to Claire, Harry's lead detective, but I made my first call to her boss. I didn't mention the cryptic text I'd gotten that I suspected came from him.

Instead, I said, "Harry, I need some information. But before I go there, I have a delicate question to ask."

"You sure I'm the one to ask about anything delicate?" Harry said with a laugh.

"I'm trying to run down a guy who may frequent bathhouses and seems to know something about the Ricky Mason tied into the Seaver case. I don't have any good connections into that community. I thought maybe I could ask Claire for her advice, but I don't want to offend her by crossing any lines ... you know, assuming something I shouldn't. I don't want to disrespect her privacy. Maybe she doesn't want some things—I think you called them 'personal choices'—associated with her job or discussed at all."

"I know your intentions are good, Debra Ann, but I don't think Claire would mind. Listen, I'm not the most sensitive guy—'I know, tell me it ain't so, Harry!'—and I'm not into all the stuff going on today. So, when Claire first came to me looking for work, I won't lie, it was awkward. But she's not shy about it, loud and proud, and she put it out there for what it was. Made it easier for me to come up to speed. Best hire I ever made. I'm sure she'll help you. I don't think after the surgery she hits the night scene as much as she used to, but she'll know the players and who to go to for information. She's in the office today; should I tell her you're on the line?"

"Harry, thanks again," I said. "Talking with you is educational, to say the least. Yes, if she's got a moment, I'd appreciate chatting with her."

"Whatever you're up to, Debra Ann, be careful."

Claire picked up a few moments later. "Good evening, Debra Ann, great to talk with you again," Claire said. "Harry tells me you need some help in an area where I'm uniquely qualified."

"Hi, Claire—to be honest, I'm in a situation where I need some questions answered," I said, "but coming off like a bull in a china shop among people I don't know wouldn't be good for anyone."

"In other words, you are an outsider in this ... 'area,' and if someone did share with you, you couldn't trust anything they said. Right? So, what are we working with here?"

"A month ago, the tip line gets a call from Steamworks, a gay bathhouse in Chicago. Some guy, thirtyish, claims he has information about Ricky Mason and the Brian Pierce murder. He hangs up before saying anything else, and police blow him off as a crank. But that seems a little too specific to me, and I'm wondering if there's something we missed. Neither Mason nor Pierce would be considered public figures, so if this guy knew them, maybe he's spent some time in San Diego. Assuming he's gay, that narrows things down a little more, and I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask around and see if anyone here might know something."

"I've got friends, and I know people who know people," Claire said. "For something one-off like this, better if I do the asking. Someone straight showing up suddenly asking questions about particular individuals associated with a killing won't fly. Give me a couple of days, and I'll get back to you."

"Thanks, Claire, I'll owe you," I said.

"No problem—we'll get together soon and exchange fashion tips," Claire said as she signed off.

#

True to her word, Claire called me two days later.

"Got some news for you, and you might be on to something," Claire said by way of introduction.

"Wow, that didn't take long," I said, truly surprised at the turnaround.

"You were right about him being local, and your boy's popular. He's been a regular on the scene in San Diego for a while ... until he took off a couple days after Pierce was beaten to death. Big, good-looking guy, gets along, knows how to make his friends happy. His name's Mark Christensen.

"Ricky Mason is a different story altogether. He's still in the closet, hits the bars once a month trolling for one-night hookups, pretty much a full-of-himself jerk. The story goes that Mason took Christensen home, and a third man showed up and surprised them in the middle of the night. The street says it was a gender-phobe looking for a fight—they don't know yet about Pierce's letters. Either way, something bad happens to the straight guy, and suddenly Christensen's got money and he's in the wind with no notice. He put out the word he was going to see family, but the assumption is he saw something he wasn't supposed to and was paid off to go away."

"Christensen could be a material witness, then," I mused. "Sounds like I need to go to Chicago."

"The bathhouse scene in Chi-town can get pretty rough," Claire offered. "And you're going to have the same problem fitting in there as you do here. I can help you out. I know someone, a former Chicago police officer until they outed him and kicked him off the force. His name's Dale Newsome. He knows the Boystown scene well. He can point you in the right direction and keep you safe."

"Boystown?"

Claire explained. "That's what they call the Northalsted neighborhood in East Lakeview where the LGBTQ crowd hangs out. I texted you his number. Call him first, and he'll get you set up with decent accommodations in the area. And be sure and let him know I said 'hi.'"

I caught just the slightest hint of affection in Claire's voice and sensed some history between them.

Either way, I'd be making my journey before long to the Windy City by air to interview a tall man about time spent with a short blowhard.